


My Empire of Dirt

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Harry's Hideaway, LoMy, M/M, Motorcycles, Slash, Songfic, i NEVER write songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan won't admit that he's lonely. But Remy still has a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Empire of Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the X-Men characters; I don’t own the fandom. I’m not making any money writing this, either. Boo-hoo. The lyrics to “Hurt” are owned and copyrighted by Nine Inch Nails.

He shuffles the cards deftly, hardly thinking about it. The flex of his long, slender thief’s fingers make the cards snap together, reminiscent of firecrackers and cherry bombs hitting the pavement. He lives in the shadows, ensconced at the corner table. The shot of tequila by his right hand is seldom empty, or seldom full, depending on how you looked at it. The sloe-eyed waitress in tiny red shorts smirks briefly each time he motions her over for another. His smile is charming but noncommittal.

 

I hurt myself today  
To see if I still feel  
I focus on the pain  
The only thing that's real

 

His blue eyes are stony, not those of a man looking for a good time. He lumbers inside in long, easy strides, greeting no one. He’s here to drink, ignoring the clusters of bodies on the dance floor, tasting the sharp tang of their sweat as he passes. He makes his order at the bar, the usual. The patrons at the counter eye him warily before sidling apart to make room for him. He spares them a nod but omits the smile. The curl of cool mist wafts up from the neck of the bottle as he pops the cap, telling him how good it tastes before he even purses his lips around it.

 

The needle tears a hole  
The old familiar sting  
Try to kill it all away  
But I remember everything

 

He feels his amusement from across the room. The flush starts its way up his nape in a rush of prickles. He ignores it, briefly, and goes back to his beer. He hears the flap of the cards and their slide across the table over the din of music, laughter and clinking glasses. He knows the guy is smirking at him without even looking back.

 

What have I become?  
My sweetest friend  
Everyone I know  
Goes away in the end

 

He’s wearing him down. He waits, enjoying the slow minutes of just watching him, seeing those thick fingers peel the labels from the Molson bottles as they empties line up along the counter. He knows why he’s here, knows his pain, so much like his own. There’s strength in that compact frame, and thousands of healed-over wounds with invisible scars. He knows the screams never die, staining his sleep.

 

You could have it all  
My empire of dirt  
I will let you down  
I will make you hurt

 

He knows the Cajun charmer’s just as much at home in dives like these as he is, but it’s out of character for him to be alone. He knows playing quarters and shooting tequila in a rollicking crowd or drinking easy victims under the table are more his speed, yet…he’s a thief. Silence and shadows are his friends, the only balm for guilt when the whisky buzz wears off. He reminds himself that it isn’t up to him to save him. He’s not the kid’s keeper, despite Chuck’s efforts to mold a school teacher out of him, out of some effort to redeem him. Ain’t like the Cajun’s a kid, anyway. Not with all the deaths he’d witnessed, certainly, let alone the massacre he caused. No; the Cajun doesn’t need a babysitter, even if he’s looking for someone to tuck him in and rock him to sleep.

I wear this crown of shit  
Upon my liar's chair  
Full of broken thoughts  
I cannot repair

 

He looks good to him, cleaned up but still wild and unruly. He watches him wipe the sweat from his nape and hold the cold beer bottle to his throat, briefly, borrowing its chill. He finds himself licking his lips at the thought of how the Canadian’s neck must taste, how firm and hot his skin must be under the well-worn shirt. He’s already rolled up the sleeves and undone another button, tempting him with the unlikely. He wants the unlikely to become the inevitable, wants him to feel his sway and another hint of what he’s feeling. Just a taste. Just a touch. Anything to distract him from the emptiness he’s feeling. He glances down at the glass. It’s empty, too, but another one might not help.

 

Beneath the stains of time  
The feelings disappear  
You are someone else  
I am still right here

 

It’s driving him bug nuts. He sighs and heaves himself off the stool, taking his beer and the small dish of roasted nuts with him. He doesn’t bother with excuse me’s or pardon me’s, doesn’t care how much personal space he’s invading as he shoulders his way through the crowd. He tells himself he doesn’t want to be rude. That’s it. It’s not because he wants company, because he sure as hell doesn’t want company. But the sensation of someone watching him has always made him uneasy, even when it’s by someone he knows. Call him paranoid, call him cautious, or whatever the fuck. The beer’s made him mellow, but the Cajun’s made him testy.

Blue eyes bore into red. A lopsided grin greets him, and Remy sets down the cards, opens up his arms in welcome.

“Cut me in, already.”

*

 

They play through the bar’s peak hours, slowing down on their drinks, but they’ve switched to taking turns when they pay for each round, depending on who loses each hand. Each man has an unbreakable poker face; it’s more about chance and each turn of the cards than the bluff. They’ve been reading each other’s bluffs for years by now, engaging in a dance of equals. They people watch and move on to pool. This time it’s all about skill. The feral chuckles hoarsely as the thief scratches on his left corner shot, interrupting his run of the table. But as the night wears on, he cares less about the balls and more about the elegant lines of the younger man’s body as he leans over the table, concentrating fiercely on the cue, fingers forming a stiff, practiced bridge over the worn green felt. He likes that look on his face when he’s not trying to charm anyone or give them a bullshit story of where he hasn’t been or what he would never do. It’s fierce and hard, but the mask goes back up when he glances up at him, raising a tapered auburn brow before he drives the seven cleanly into the pocket.

 

What have I become?  
My sweetest friend  
Everyone I know  
Goes away in the end

 

They smoke on the patio once the crowd wanes outside, glad for the cool air and grateful only to hear the thumping bass at a low hum. Each man ponders that this isn’t where either of them meant to be at this point, not what they wanted to be when they grew up, not anywhere close to the end of the rainbow. It’s never been about putting on a red cape and jumping off the roof to see if they could fly. They’ve been heroes and danced the dance, and then cried the tears. They’ve saved the day and kissed the girl, at a minimum. They’ve planned and plotted and schemed, taken orders and taken the kitty under the table, made promises with their fingers crossed behind their backs, knowing it wasn’t pretty. When sleep is the enemy, wrought with dreams of blood, smoke and ruin, you pick your playmates carefully before you burn the midnight oil. They enjoy the first acrid puff of their Lucky Strikes and Cuban cigars, savoring the mellow, husky burn as it fills their lungs, not giving a damn about the consequences. A long life is a rare, overrated thing to an assassin, and it’s a pipe dream to a thief.

 

You could have it all  
My empire of dirt  
I will let you down  
I will make you hurt

 

A glance, and then a double take. Static. Dilating pupils. A throat clears while fingers flick away sweat from ruddy, flushed cheeks. Muscles tighten across taut bellies while breath hitches, briefly. Fingers tighten around a pearl-handled Zippo, hand faltering in mid-air while the one holding a fresh Lucky Strike twitches slightly, then sets it down on the dirty, abandoned table. Signals fly between them, from blue eyes to red and back. A collar is loosened when it suddenly feels too tight. Everything feels too tight and strained, restless. They share a thought.

Don’t blame me when this all goes to hell. We both know better.

The hell with knowing better.

*

 

They only make it as far as the deserted parking garage before they can’t contain it anymore. Their strides are still surprisingly graceful despite relieving Harry of enough alcohol to float the Titanic. Ask the Cajun what his blood type is at this point, and he’ll tell you it’s one hundred thirty proof.

But don’t ask him now. He’s occupied, back crammed up against the side of the Jeep with the feral’s hands on him, fisted in his collar and tangled in his long hair. He’s groaning with the pleasure/pain of the teeth bruising his lower lip as his mouth is dominated, invaded. The sandpaper stroke of his tongue makes speech, even thought, unlikely for the remainder of the night. Except for one last thing.

“Bring me back later. We’ll take the bike.”

The hell with knowing better. The high is too good to give up, riding hell for leather on the Harley, wind pushing at them and tearing at their clothes. He can feel his heart hammering at his back and feel the heat of his hands at his waist. He smells the tang of alcohol mingling with a hint of pending rain and road exhaust, and it is heady. His blood is pumping with the rumble of the road beneath him, engine purring between his legs. He isn’t ignoring the stiffness pressed up against his ass, and he doesn’t suppress his grin any longer.

They make it back to the garage and turn off the ignition, but before his tall, lean passenger can follow him, he turns and halts him, pushing him back into the seat. His hand reaches for his face, stroking the smooth plane of his cheek before guiding him down into his hard kiss. The garage automatically locks itself as soon as they’re inside, the door sliding down the only sound other than their breathing as fingers dance over buttons and zippers. Once the thief’s jeans are undone, he rests back enough to let the assassin’s grip tug them down just enough to free his throbbing erection that twitches under contact of the cool air and the feel of the leather against his ass. Blue eyes peer slyly up into red as the stiff, heated flesh finds its way into his mouth. His body jerks and his eyes drift shut as he propels him headlong into one of his favorite dreams.

He’s grateful for Scott’s love of toys when he finds the remote to the stereo system nearby when his partner lets him up, just long enough to change his perch, even though he can barely walk straight. He grins in response to his skeptical glance as he punches on the music at low volume, and he chuckles as the remote is pried from his hand and tossed aside, feeling the hard, muscular chest press up against his back. Fingers lace through his as lips and teeth mark him, and he shudders in pleasure, impatient for what’s next.

*

He lives in the moment. “Tomorrow morning” isn’t even a variable, or the question of whether they will still be friends. Theirs is an odd, unconventional bond, one where they can each answer the question Can I trust you? with a cavalier I will, anyway. He doesn’t care which of them wakes up first in the morning and creeps out of the room at first light, doesn’t care about awkward conversations over coffee or furtive glances in the Danger Room or the den. He doesn’t give a damn who catches him in the hall, looking like he didn’t just come from his own suite or like his shirt’s on inside-out.

He wants him.

*

He wants him.

He doesn’t care about “war stories” of relationships they’ve had or how many notches the guy has on his bed post. If he won’t tell, he won’t ask. He’s fine with that. His skin feels right and tastes perfect on his tongue, seasoned with sweat and smoke and the hint of whisky leaking from his pores. He finds completion throbbing inside his heat, trying to get deeper, closer to perfection. He likes hearing him curse, in both languages, and loves the way his name sounds in that husky baritone. He catches that long spill of hair in his fist, jerking him back to nip the long, lean line of his throat. It’s primal and rough, its thrust and clench and tug on each of them driving away the demons, silencing their screech just long enough so they can let themselves feel.

 

One head bows against a sweat-drenched back. The other one bows itself against the cool metal of the Mercedes. Deep, harsh breathing is underscored by the low hum of the music. A hand clenches a narrow hip, not hard enough to bruise, while the other laces its fingers through his partner’s. They don’t think. They breathe. They feel.

If I could start again  
A million miles away  
I would keep myself  
I would find a way.


End file.
